All or Nothing
by Chinese Bakery
Summary: Outraged at how monotonous and lonely eternity's turning out to be, Violet contemplates losing her mind, tests Tate's patience, and finds out Michael's all grown up.


**Note: This story was written for grayglube as part of the AHS Exchange over at Livejournal.**

* * *

At first, Violet fought to keep a grasp on reality as she knew it. She couldn't go out in the world, but that didn't mean she couldn't engage with it still. She'd been lucky enough to live and die in an age when it was perfectly common to befriend people without ever meeting them face to face and to form intense bonds with pen pals, whether they lived halfway across the world or right around the corner, if so it pleased you. A child of the nineties, Violet knew how to use that to her advantage. And so she lived, in the first few years, without becoming insane or overwhelmingly lonely.

But as Violet's friends grew older, they gradually lost touch with the reclusive, home-schooled young girl they used to chat with late at night. A new generation of teenagers appeared, one Violet didn't know how to properly communicate with. She didn't speak their language, didn't know her way around their little corner of the web, and didn't get their pop references. She simply wasn't one of the kids anymore.

Seasons passed, barely noticeable under the impassive Californian sky.

Time was moving forward and Violet could feel her world becoming smaller every day. Her parents wouldn't allow for new tenants to settle in. There would be no more residents in the Murder House, permanent or otherwise. And there she was, forever stuck with the needs and dreams of a tempestuous sixteen year old, locked in a luxurious cell with hardwood floors, spotless Tiffany stained glass windows and no one to keep her company but her goddamn parents and their surly maid. That was much too sartrean for her taste.

Violet liked to be alone, always had, but this wasn't being alone. This was the most horrendous state of isolation, the kind that drove people mad, literally.

Sometimes, she heard the floor creaking down the hallway to her room and wondered if it was Tate, lurking around in the dark, just a few steps away.

Sometimes, she thought the only thing that would get her through the night without losing her mind was a moment with him. Her first love, who'd held and soothed her into the afterlife she was coming to abhor. The only love she was going to get, by the look of things.

Sometimes, she trailed her hands down her body and remembered the feel of his mouth following the same path. And afterwards, she was so horrified by her own weakness and wished there was some pills she could swallow by the dozen to erase everything. Each time she promised herself she'd never yearn for him again, knowing deep down it was a pledge that couldn't be kept.

Violet hadn't been down in the basement in years. But when she finally was ready, she found him waiting.

As she reached the bottom step from the basement's stairway, she saw him peel himself from the wall, his guarded face emerging from the shadows. His pace was slow as he came to stand in front of her, as if a brusque movement could send her flying away. For a long moment they studied each other in silence, waiting for the other to unveil his game.

"I haven't forgiven you," she finally stated.

"I know."

"I'll never forgive you."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"If you want to spend the next decade beating the shit out of me, I'll take it," Tate shrugged. "It's one step up from being ignored."

His voice felt so familiar, reminiscent of such comfort and tenderness she was tempted to reach out for him and hold on. For the longest time, she'd blocked out memories of their conversations, casual and meaningful, all those lazy afternoons spent together in the attic, the easiness between them, that kindred spirit connection she had thought they shared.

They couldn't be friends. They couldn't connect or share anything meaningful; she'd never be able to forgive herself. But as time flew by and the vacuity of her new state of existence became more oppressing every day, it was becoming increasingly difficult to justify denying herself any pleasure and gratification.

She couldn't love him, sure, but she could still use him.

"Do you want to hang out?" Tate offered, his voice growing anxious at the possibility she might change her mind and disappear.

"I don't want my parents to see us together," she said quietly.

For a long moment, Tate didn't reply. He just stared at her intently, as if assessing her. Then, with the ghost of a smirk, he took a long step forward until they were all but nose to nose, and cupped Violet's jaw,

"I get it, you know," he said, all humor gone. "I know how it feels. I've been there. But it doesn't have to be that way, for you."

His thumb was stroking the side of her face softly and, fuck, it felt good to be touched. When was the last time she'd felt anything but a maternal embrace? Before she could double-guess herself, Violet let her head fall to the side, offering her throat to him, and Tate took the hint. His hand brushed her hair back before slipping down her neck, his nails scratching softly against the lacy material of her top until it reached her chest.

Their mouth met in a kiss that instantly turned urgent and brutal. Intent on keeping the exchange more carnal than tender, Violet bit his lower lip and shivered when he bit her back, harder than she had. They started an odd pattern, hurting and soothing each other back and forth, her pulse spiking each time. When Tate sharply pinched her nipples through her shirt, Violet couldn't help but gasp out loud, rubbing against the thigh that had found its way between her legs. Her eyes flew open and she saw him watching her, his lips parted and his eyes darker than ever.

With a few impatient tugs, Tate pulled Violet's top over her head and soon, his lips and teeth came to replace his fingers on her breasts. Violet grabbed his hand and pressed it against the ridge of her jeans, moaning when his index finger started rubbing her through the denim. It had been so long -so long- since she'd felt this way, alive an anchored in the present. Moments later, her pants and panties were pooling around her ankles and his fingers were buried inside her, his thumb stroking her clit. Violet's hands flew to his head, combing through his messy hair as he suckled her harder. For a moment, nothing mattered between them but this, no betrayal, no unforgiveable lie. Violet tried to cling to the moment, to make it last longer, but she was already trembling and couldn't help but let go. She came with a long moan as pleasure burst through her, her fingers tangling harder in his blond curls.

Afterwards, she watched Tate lick his fingers clean without a word. He didn't ask her to reciprocate, and she didn't offer. Now the high of arousal had dissipated, she was increasingly anxious to leave. She couldn't look at Tate without remembering the scorching pain of their last moments together, after she'd found out what he'd done and the extent of his lies. Besides, she wouldn't risk her parents finding out she'd been down in the basement where the creeps and the monsters hung out.

"You don't have to feel guilty," he said with a soft smile. "You didn't do anything."

"I'm not feeling guilty," she replied sharply, pulling on her sleeves before combing through her messed up hair with her fingers. "I'm just disgusted."

Tate grabbed her hands, trying to link their fingers together, but Violet kept hers curled into tight fists. When he noticed the band-aids covering her left forearm, he pushed back her sleeve, his frown deepening. The more skin he uncovered, the more evidence he found. The bandages were now an anachronistic part of a ritual that still calmed her nerves and grounded her. Although her wounds healed too quickly, no matter how deep, the rush she felt at the first spill of blood was the same.

"I thought you were done hurting yourself."

"I don't even know why I bother with these," she shrugged.

"Shit, Violet-" he started, his tone grim.

"You're going to lecture me? Seriously?"

"Guess not," he sighed. "Promise me something."

"I'm not promising you _anything_."

"Next time you feel like this, come down to see me, okay? Just for a little while."

"So you can play suicide counselor?. That doesn't strike you as just a little ironic?"

"Okay, _fine_. Rip yourself to shreds, _then_ come down here to talk. I'll be waiting for you," he said, before adding in a low voice, "you'll always have me."

"I don't want to have you. This," she continued, gesturing between them, "it shouldn't have happened."

"But it did," he said softly, as she ran up the stairs.

* * *

Although it was never discussed, the house operated under a strict hierarchy. As the last owners and most recently deceased, the Harmons had retained a position of authority over the other ghosts. They occupied the ground and first floors, where they raised the baby that would never grow past infancy. As a trusted friend of Vivien and a de facto nanny, Moira was the only ghost granted unlimited access to the floors. Once in a while, Nora came up to visit the child she'd once so fiercely desired, but the others hardly ever left the basement. The Harmons' world was hermetic to what went down below their feet, a suffocating, closed off bubble.

Only Tate appeared to completely disregard the unspoken rules. Whether it was to steal a book from her father's office, keep an eye on Beau or spy on Violet's whereabouts, he seemed to be constantly sneaking around upstairs. He never tried to make contact or do anything outward that would reveal his presence. Now she'd come to him once, he wouldn't force her hand.

It took a few months for Violet to go back. On a night when she couldn't sleep and the blades wouldn't take the edge off, she went all the way downstairs without thinking, as if in a trance. Right on cue, Tate appeared from a corner as she reached the floor. She walked right past him and he followed, until they had both stepped into one of the rooms that would give them a pretense of privacy.

"Is this where you sleep?" she asked, jerking her chin towards the mattress on the floor.

"Here and there," he shrugged. "I don't really need a place of my own."

She was wearing a long skirt that reached down her ankles, and it wasn't until she'd turned to him and unzipped it and let it fall to the floor that he caught sight of the rivulets of blood running down her legs, from half a dozen fine lines on the inside of her thighs.

"What the hell?"

"I'm not here to talk," she said, tugging on her panties until they joined her skirt on the floor. She kicked them into a corner before slipping out of her top and bra. Once she was naked, she stood there immobile, her stare defiant.

Tate took a step forward in her direction, but she immediately took a step back, mirroring his movement, and waited for him to figure it out.

Taking a deep breath, Tate unhooked his belt and unbuttoned his jeans, kicking them off against the wall as she had. Violet's stare trailed down to the growing bulge discernible under his boxers and stayed there. Smirking, he pulled down his underwear, letting his fully aroused cock spring free. Violet's body was responding fast, craving him already, but she refused to show it yet.

Once his sweater and undershirt had joined the rest of his clothes on the floor, he titled his head, asking silently, _What now? _

Obligingly, Violet stepped onto the mattress and knelt down, arching her back forward slowly until she was on her hands and knees, exposed and dripping wet. She couldn't see him, but she could hear his shallow breathing, could sense him getting quietly closer. The mattress moved under her and suddenly, long fingers were searching her, rubbing her, testing her readiness. A moment later, he entered in one long motion, until he was fully buried inside her. He started moving, his rhythm to lazy for her taste. She didn't want gentle, she didn't want slow.

"More," she kept saying, and hurrying their pace until it was fast enough, hard enough to make her gasp with each stroke.

Several times, he tried to flip them around and each time, she shook him off.

"Come on," he bit out, frustrated, his hand pulling on her shoulder, "I want to see your face. I want to kiss you."

"Keep going," she answered, pleading, feeling pleasure rising to impossible heights. With a hoarse cry, she felt her orgasm explode in a blissful moment before her body went limp.

"You're bleeding," Tate noted with a frown as they separated. Carefully, he wrapped an arm around her and closed his eyes, smiled to himself when she didn't instantly wriggle away.

"The perks of dying a virgin."

"I forgot. Sorry, I was too rough," he said, kissing her temple.

"Rough's good. I like rough," she said, itching away. Violet looked down her body to find her cuts were already completely faded. "I should go back upstairs."

"Come on," he said, displeasure plain in his voice, "you can stay five goddamn minutes, can't you?"

"What for?"

"I don't know," he huffed, aggravated, "maybe we could try talking like actual human fucking beings?" Tate closed his eyes, reigning on his temper before asking softly, "Why did you hurt yourself tonight? Just tell me what's wrong, Violet. I can help. I know I can."

"Really? Do you know what day it is today?"

"I don't really keep track," he said, shaking his head.

"Today's my birthday. My thirtieth birthday. And the funny thing is, I keep wondering if there are alternate realities -because, you know, if ghosts are real, why not alt universes, right? And I can't pick one. I can't choose between the one where I'm a stay-at-home mom with my 2.1 kids and the one where I'm living in a neat condo somewhere fancy with my gay lover and that other one where I'm a lonely cat lady with no life who keeps stocking up for the zombie apocalypse Anything's better than this, because nothing, _nothing_ is ever going to happen to me. I'll always be that stunted kid that will never get to do _anything_ with her life. So, can you help me with that?" she finished in a scream. Mortified to find out tears were streaming down her face, she wiped them angrily with the back of her hand, before turning back to Tate, her glare dark and accusatory.

"Don't," he pleaded, shaking his head. "Violet-"

"Go away. Just go away!"

It was only after he'd disappeared that she allowed the heavy sobs to escape her throat.

* * *

Halloween night in Murder House was like a New Years Eve, Christmas and everyone's birthday combined. The Harmons usually went out together in the evening, marvelling at all the ways the world had changed again that year. But for once, Violet intended to keep her 'Get out of jail free' card to herself. When she'd announced her attention to go her own way, her mother had been livid.

"Don't you want to go out with us?" Vivien asked, her disappointment plainly visible. "Moira's looking after the baby tonight. We were going to go for a walk and maybe catch a movie later."

"It's what we've been doing every year, Mom. I think I just want to be alone this time. Why don't you go out on a date, just the two of you?"

"Alright," Vivien had sighed. "Just be careful, okay?" she'd added with a meaningful look. There was little doubt who her mother thought Violet needed to beware of, but her mother's fears were unwarranted. Ever since she'd humiliated herself by throwing a fit on her thirtieth birthday, over a year ago, Violet had been conscientiously avoiding Tate. She's slipped back into a routine of despondency, isolation and self-harm. Her parents didn't seem to notice but then again, they had been just as oblivious to her turmoil when they were all alive.

The sun had set and it was a little chilly for an October night in LA. As she took her first step past the gates in a year, the breeze blew through her hair and raised goose bumps up her arms. Violet thought she could discern a hint of the ocean's salt in the gentle wind. It was nearly enough to make her toes curl in her shoes. The air outside felt lighter, filled with possibilities for grandeur.

Violet was taking a few leisurely steps down the streets, stretching, when something caught her eye up a neighbor's house. And not just any house. Someone was literally climbing out a first stair's window from the Langdon's estate. Her curiously piqued, Violet halted her stroll to observe as the supple silhouette slid down and landed smoothly on the grass. The stranger was male, she could make out as he grew nearer, a thin young boy dressed in black from head to toe, his head covered with a hoodie, very burglar chic.

Her brain had already connected the dots when he reached the pavement and noticed her staring but her heart still stopped when he pushed back his headgear and his face appeared in shadows under the street lamps light.

It wasn't just the physical resemblance that threw her for a loop. From the nonchalant way he carried himself to the lopsided grin that lit up his face, he looked almost exactly like his father still did. Without thinking, she started walking in his direction on shaky legs.

"Do I know you?" Michael asked, his eyes travelling up and down her body appraisingly with an amped up teenage swagger she might have found find laughable in another set of circumstances.

His hair was a darker shade than Tate's, or possibly a little redder, but it could have been just a trick of the light. His eyes, though, were an unmistakable piercing blue.

"I don't think so, no," Violet replied, captivated. Self preservation should send her running in the opposite direction, she knew, but over the past decade she'd acquired a perverse sense of curiosity and a certain knack for self-torment. And for now, all she wanted was to know him.

"Okay," he trailed, raising an eyebrow. "I'm Michael. Michael Langdon."

"Violet. I'm either your next door neighbor or the next victim of your one-man housebreaking ring."

"Really? How come I've never seen you around?"

"I don't get out much. Usually."

"You have psycho parents, too, uh?"

"Not ready. I'm just really antisocial," she replied with a smirk. "So, what was that?" she asked, eyeing the window he'd escaped from moments earlier.

"What, that? I just enjoy a dramatic exit," he said with a communicative grin. "Well, my grandmother believes Halloween night is party time for ghouls and monsters. According to her, it's basically open season for all your urban legends' favorites."

"She sounds a little intense."

"You have no idea," he laughed. "Any night of the year, I can do whatever I want. Except this one. So of course..."

"It's the one night you chose to feel claustrophobic."

"Pretty much," he said, lighting a Camel and wordlessly holding the pack for her in offering. She took a long drag, smiling to herself. It had been ages since she'd snuck out and had a cigarette. It had been ages since she hadn't done a thing her parents wouldn't approve of... unless you counted the one thing that would raise all kinds of hell if they found out.

"So, what are you doing tonight?" Michael asked.

"I don't know," she shrugged. "Just out for a walk I guess. I need to stretch my legs"

"Do you want some company?"

She hesitated only for a minute. They held each other's stare and he grinned, as if daring her to follow and damn, but she wanted to know him. How long had it been since she'd met someone new? Someone actually alive, who belonged in the world rather than just leeching off it uselessly? There was something so appealing about him, whether it was their shared genes or the history he probably has no clue of.

"Why not?" she finally said, putting out her cigarette with the heels of her worn out Chuck Taylors. "Beats my big plan of doing nothing, I guess."

"We could go to the beach," he offered. "Smoke a joint. Skinny dip. I've got this great weed-"

"No," she replied decisively. "Definitely not the beach."

"Do you have a better idea?"

_Just be careful_, her mother had said. Then again, she'd never grown past the point where nothing was as appealing as the polar opposite to her parents' advice.

"You know, I think I actually have the house to myself tonight," she shrugged. "It's been awhile since I've smoked some decent dope."

"Alright," he said, his grin illuminating the whole neighborhood.

Michael Langdon, it turned out, was discouragingly ignorant in all things worth knowing. He was uninterested in bands or directors who had been active before the 2010's and, to her outrage, he was convinced that Morrissey was a deceased film score composer. He didn't read and watched too much reality television, or what seemed to pass for reality in this day and age. But his weed was as good as advertised and she certainly appreciated his wry sense of humor. He'd let her play with his phone, which was more powerful than any computer she'd ever owned, and had laughed at all her lame jokes.

By the time he leaned down to kiss her, she was sufficiently baked and caught in the moment not to think to push him away. In the periphery of her slightly addled mind, she knew there were so many reasons it was wrong, it could hardly be any wronger. For one thing, he was a breathing, living teenage boy and she was a dead girl walking, literally. He _was_ her half-brother, although they hadn't grown up together or even been alive at the same time. And of course, he was her only lover's doppelganger son, which added a copious layer of insane fucked-upness to the whole thing.

But as the kiss deepened and they tasted each other, she decided to concentrate on how good she was feeling rather than to second-guess herself. They were lying together on her bed, their leg entwining, and she was instantly excited at a base level. Taking charge, Michael nipped at her lower lips and pulled her on top of him until she was flush against him from head to toe. He grabbed her buttocks and pressed her harder against him, his hardening groin straining to meet her.

"I don't know if this is such a good idea," she managed.

"Are you kidding? It's the best idea, ever," he countered, and she found she had nothing to retort to that.

He manoeuvred them until he was on top and took charge from there. Michael had a mean streak. He was a biter and he didn't mind drawing blood, which she didn't seem to mind. Ever since her last encounter with Tate, she'd been desperate to feel anything beside anguish and boredom. Gasping and wincing in turn, she let him taste and bruise her skin as her excitement built. But to her infuriation, no matter how much she wanted to carpe the fucking diem, there was no escaping the simple fact that the boy she currently was with wasn't the one she longed for.

Violet was topless and out of breath by the time the door slammed open with a bang, the air in the room suddenly thick. _Danger_, was all Violet could process in the split second it took for goose bumps to rise along her limbs.

"Hi, Dad," Michael said, his amusement unequivocal as he looked over his shoulder. Instantly alarmed, Violet pushed him off her and sat up in a panic, her hands covering her bare breasts.

"Take your shit and get out," she heard Tate command, his voice shaky with anger. "You've got 10 seconds."

"Or what?" Michael asked, unperturbed. The next second, Tate was towering over him, his face stormiest than Violet had ever seen it.

"Don't. Test me," Tate bit out, as his son's grin faltered.

Although he moved with exaggerated nonchalance, Michael seemed to have lost some of his composure as he got out of bed to pick up his hoodie from the floor and made himself scarce.

"Later, Violet," Michael called back without looking out her.

* * *

After Michael's departure, Violet turned her back to Tate long enough to slip on her long-sleeved t-shirt and went to sit cross-legged at the edge of her bed, opposite the spot Tate had dropped to on the floor with his head bent and his arms wrapped around his knees. At least, his anger seemed to have subsided.

"I guess the odds that it was all a coincidence are pretty slim," he said morosely, raising his head to meet her eyes.

"I had no idea you even knew each other," she said, at a loss. "He's never come to the house before."

"I visit him sometimes," Tate answered tonelessly. "Around this time of the year."

"You go to Constance's on your one day of freedom?"

"Not that she knows."

"I had no clue. Is he aware of... You know. Everything?"

Tate sighed deeply. "I don't know how much she's told him exactly. We have a complicated relationship," he enunciated with a bite of sarcasm. "He's a bit like me, only worse. Everything's a game with him, some fucked up power play. You'll never get a straight answer out of him."

Violet looked down, biting down her retort. There was no use in pointing out the similarities between them, especially not after the scene he'd walked in on.

"So, you and Michael, huh? Of all the guys in the world, you chose _him_ and brought him _here_."

"I've only known him for one evening," she replied defensively.

"Is it about revenge? Are you still trying to punish me?"

"I don't know. I haven't really thought things through," she said, bringing her knees against her chest. "I guess it could be part of it. I don't know. It's been a long time since I've had some company besides my parents."

"I could give you company. I'm _dying_ to give your company. You're the one who won't let me."

Again, she opted not to answer.

"So, does this make us even then?"

"No," she said sadly. "I don't think so."

"Of course not," he chuckled humorlessly. "We'll never be even. So, it's okay to use me like a prop and shut me out when you've had enough. And why not fuck _him_ right in front of me, I've earned it, right?" Tate paused to wipe his eyes with his first. "The thing is, every day you pretend I don't exist, I want to kill myself all over again. So I hope you get some kick out of it."

"I don't," she said shakily. "Not at all."

"Then why do you do it?" he pressed, his eyes were filled with anguish. Violet felt her heart break for the both of them

"I don't know. I haven't felt like myself in so long; I have no idea what I'm doing."

"That thing with... with your mom. We've never even talked about it, have we? Like, really talked."

He waited until Violet shook her head. Her hands were trembling against her knees.

"Truth is," he continued, "I've never regretted something a much in my life. I've done a lot of bad shit, but if I could take back just one thing, it would be the one. I barely even knew you then, and Nora asked me to..." he paused, sniffling. "I had to help her. I'd promised her. She took care of me since I was a little kid. She tucked me in at night and read me stories and kept the monsters away. I thought I owed it to her, that I _had_ to do what she wanted. I wasn't thinking straight."

"Hey," she said. Sliding down the bed to level with him, she reached to brush his hair away from his forehead and left her hand there. He was really crying now, his shaky sobs reverberating through her.

"Your father once told me I was a psychopath, a hopeless fucking cause. But he's wrong, you know? I've read all his stupid books. I'm nothing like that. I feel remorse."

"I don't think it counts as remorse when you're only sorry for the things you've lost," she said softly.

"All my life," he said, lifting his face to hers, "All I've ever wanted was for someone to love me."

"I did," she said, her fingers sliding along his cheek. "I do," she corrected, smiling sadly at the instant gleam of hope shining through his moist eyes. "It's not something I can just turn off. But that doesn't mean I can pretend like nothing happened."

"I don't want to pretend like nothing happened. I want to make things right," he said, wiping his face in his sleeves. He took a deep breath, testing the steadiness of his voice. "I miss you. A lot."

"I miss you too," she admitted. "I miss having you around to help me make sense of all of this. Sometimes, I still think I'm going to wake up and find out it was all a nightmare."

"You're adapting. It takes time."

"I've been here a long time. Shouldn't I be okay with it by now?"

"I don't know," he shrugged. "It wasn't the same for me. I grew up in this house. I always knew I'd become part of it someday."

"Then why didn't you run away?"

"There was no point. This is where I belong."

"What if I don't? What if this is isn't where I was meant to be?"

"You will. This place changes you as much as you change it. It's like an osmosis thing. It evens out in the end."

"Ominous, much?" she asked in mock outrage. They exchanged a grin in rediscovered complicity, but his face sobered quickly.

"Do you think you'll forgive me one day?"

"I don't know. I think we might be going about this the wrong way," she said, brushing his forehead with her knuckles. "Does it really have to be all or nothing? Lovers or estranged? What if we're more of a shades-of-gray type of people?"

"What do you mean?" he asked with a frown, his hopes visibly leaping.

"What I just said," she whispered, and leaned over until her mouth touched his, just barely.

Afraid to break the moment, Tate let her take the lead once more. As their kisses grew deeper and more exploratory, she leaned against him until they were lying together on the hardwood floor, her hand sliding down until she reached the bulge of his jeans.

"Are you-"

"Shut up," she said impatiently, her hands already working to unhook his belt. He lifted his butt obligingly as she pulled his pants and underwear out of the way and bent over him to take him in her mouth, the whole solid length of him, her tongue rolling up and down smooth skin until she could taste a hint of salt and bitterness. The look on his face, when their eyes met, was even more exciting that the sound of his quickening breath or the noticeable tremor of his hand as it stroked her hair.

"Enough," he exhaled, pulling her up until he could suckle her braless breasts through her thin cotton shirt. His hand reached under her skirt and to graze her panties, finding her soaked and more than ready, until Violet decided she would take no more teasing.

"Bed," she said, "now."

That time was nothing like their previous silent encounter in the dark basement. She didn't shy away from his kisses as he slid into her but instead wrapped her legs around his hips, urging him closer and rising to meet him more forcefully with each stroke. When he rolled them over until she was riding him, she gripped the headboard and leaned over, letting her hair tickle his shoulders with every move. His hand slid between them to urge her along, each flick of his finger against her clit threatening to push her past the edge when she desperately wanted to prolong the moment.

"Shit," she moaned against his mouth, but it was already too late to stop. A wave of pleasure hit her hard and she started shaking, burying her face in the crook of his neck. He crashed into her for a few more strokes before his whole body went tense under hers. Now limp and out of breath, it took Violet a minute to gather the strength to entangle from him.

"Will you ignore me again tomorrow?" he asked as she settled against him, her head resting on his chest.

"Maybe," she answered teasingly. "Just go to sleep."

"I don't sleep," he informed her.

"You don't?" she asked quizzically, lifting her head in surprise. "Not ever?"

"I can't remember the last time. I tend to lose track."

"Wow. Time must pass really slowly when you can't even get some rest."

"No shit. It will happen to you too, some day," he informed her.

"I didn't want to know that," she groaned. "Fine. You'll tell me all about it. _Tomorrow_," she said, her pointed tone derailed by a yawn.

Minutes later, she was out, her breathing deep and even. She looked so much like a child, both peaceful and vulnerable.

In a few short hours, the sun would rise for a new year of sameness. For the first time in ages, Tate allowed himself to feel optimistic about the future as he regained his quarters

to lie in wait in the shadows, where he belonged, before morning came.


End file.
